


Helter Skelter

by Desdemona



Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Character Study, F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:30:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdemona/pseuds/Desdemona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It could cut her to pieces and leave her heart in meaty tatters behind her ribs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helter Skelter

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've written in awhile and I feel a bit rusty so apologies if it doesn't flow like it should. Also, despite what does happen in this story, please read this with a caveat that I do not actually ship this pairing the way most do. I'm interested in particular aspects of it, just like I am in many of the ships of the show. I only have one real ship but I like writing about different characters and playing with the dynamics.
> 
> So, please, don't expect this to go any particular way save for the way I wrote it. I'm also aware that this pairing has become one of the most controversial pairings in the fandom, with people being vehemently for it and against it. I welcome commentary on my take on it but please understand that I'll delete any comments that strike me as fight bait. There are also spoilers for season 4 in here, take note!
> 
> The title, btw? Is more about me than it is the story. The story just spilled out without any order at all.
> 
> Besides all that, please enjoy the story! If you catch errors, do excuse them. I'll be re-reading for awhile and I'll likely catch them soon.

 

 

**hel·ter-skel·ter**

ˌheltər ˈskeltər/

_adjective & adverb_

**1**. in disorderly haste or confusion.

 

* * *

 

Her hands flatten against his chest. Tripping had left her speechless but landing on him had left her winded for different reasons. His hands come up quick to steady her and when she looks up, Daryl's squinting at her with faint traces of worrying darkening his gaze.

“You okay?”

She doesn't even remember how she tripped. She looks down and around. She's tired. But they're all tired. All worn out. The sickness isn't just physical. It feels like it's emotional and it's wearing them all down. Soon, they'll be just sun-bleached bones worn smooth by time.

“Carol?”

When did she get so morbid?

“Hey.” He gives her the gentlest shake until she looks back up, squinting herself as the sun peeks over his head, haloing him. “You okay?”

His hands are rough through the thin material of her T-shirt. He smells of earth, sun, and sweat; the scents of hard labor. She knows him though. It'll be awhile before someone can talk him into a shower. The smell will sour. The idea of him stinking makes her smile.

“I'm fine,” she says after a long while and she sounds distant, even to herself. “You need a bath soon.”

He rolls his eyes and drops his hands. She misses his touch almost immediately.

“Shower ain't going no where,” he says, cocking the corner of his mouth at her, daring her to scold him further. “But I am.”

She shakes her head at him as he strides away, long legs eating up ground in record time.

Running from a bath.

She still finds herself smiling after him.

 

* * *

 

She watches the bodies burn until they aren't much more than scorched flesh. The smell is awful. She pulls the bandana up higher to cover her nose but doesn't leave until the deed is done.

Watching over them is the least she can do.

They'd become a threat but before that they'd been people she'd taken care of. But in the end, a threat was a threat.

She puts the gas can down, wipes sweat from her brow and looks up at the sky. If she's quick, she can get the rest of her chores done and see Daryl and the others off on their supply run.

It'll be the last time they see each other for a while.

 

* * *

 

In a quiet corner outside, he leans against a wall, smoking one last cigarette before they have to go. He's been hoarding them carefully, smoking one every other week to stretch his stash for as long as possible. He blows out smoke in long streams. The pleasure of each puff softens his face, erasing years off him. His gaze is dark and hazy with enjoyment as his mouth pulls hungrily on the filter.

It's not the first time she's wanted to find out what he's tasted like mixed with tobacco and it won't be the last.

But this time, as she moves into touching distance, she's struck with the fierce desire to _know._ The want is so sharp that it makes her go still, suddenly afraid of the emotional blade in her chest. It could cut her to pieces and leave her heart in meaty tatters behind her ribs. She's played this game before but never with such a dangerous feeling in her chest.

Maybe it was because she can still taste the faint trace of a different kind of smoke on her tongue. Maybe it's the unshakeable feeling that life is too short, even at the end of the world. Or maybe it was the fact that he might not make it back in time and they'd all die in a brutally ironic prison of their own making.

Too many maybes. But there was one certainty and he was finishing his cigarette as she stepped into his space and looked up at him.

He lifts his eyebrows, gaze sliding along her face, seeking clues. Tracking her emotions. Finally, he holds out his cigarette curiously. “You wanna kill it?”

She's not sure why she nods but she does and he hands it to her then chews on his lip while she takes a cautious inhale. The smoke is acrid and rough, a thick cloud swelling behind her teeth. Her eyes water as she fights a cough, hurriedly blowing it all out. There's an immediate rush to her head and she wonders if she's going to gag right here and now. But the feeling passes and she's left feeling mildly dazed. Her mouth feels odd. Not stale exactly but there's a texture on her teeth that's never been there before.

It's not entirely bad.

She starts to put the filter back to her mouth when he grunts, “Hold on, wait a minute.”

She goes perfectly still as he eases closer to her, plucking the cigarette from her fingers. He pops it into the corner of his mouth and says, “Watch,” before taking a deep pull. The cherry burns a rich red and the sun casts shadows in the hollow of his cheek. She watches while he blows out a lazy stream of gray smoke. It's smooth and easy for him, near TV perfect. It kind of reminds her of the Marlboro man and she's suddenly grateful he doesn't smoke around the kids.

He made it look far too appealing.

“Okay,” he hands her the little stub. “Now kill it.”

Meeting his gaze, she puts the cigarette back to her lips. It's still moist from his mouth and without thinking, she licks it.

His eyes widen just a tad.

She can't taste anything except the filter but the little fissure of electricity at the base of her spine says it doesn't matter. She takes a bold drag, holding his eyes. The smoke is no less strong on the second bout. Her eyes burn a bit. But she forces herself to blow out as even of a stream as she can. The smoke trails up and away while he watches her crush the filter beneath her boot.

“Dead and gone,” she says, surprised to find her throat a little hoarse. The smoke had done a little damage after all.

“Carol,” he starts, his shoulders already hunching nervously.

It takes three steps for her to be in his space. She folds her fingers into his shirt. The material is scratchy and warm from his skin. His heart thumps solidly beneath her palm.

“Don't think about it,” she says.

His hand drops to cover hers. Emotions race across his face – worry, panic, more worry – and then he rumbles, “I dunno what you want from me.”

“Do you trust me?” she whispers.

His chest rises and falls twice before he nods. His mouth is chewed red from his teeth, his eyes guarded, the hand at his side fidgety.

She figures he isn't going to give up her hand so she moves the other one up, smoothing along his chin, to his ear to his hair. He takes in soft, quick breaths as she cards her fingers through the dark, cool strands before cupping the back of his head. He's resistant at first, eyes widening again like he has no idea how things have gotten this far. She doesn't insist, doesn't pull, though she's aware somewhere in the back of her head that they won't be alone forever and their time is short.

She waits until he moves, lowering his head to hers. She has to lift up to meet him the rest of the way.

His mouth is shaky under hers and she has to coax him to open up. Her first taste of him drags a sigh out of her mouth. The tobacco is there mixing with a cautious kind of sweetness. His mouth falls open a little more on a groan that makes her stomach spiral down to her toes. The sweetness eventually burns away to something hot and so tender that her heart seesaws on that stubborn blade in her chest, trying to sever itself in half. Still, she lingers, trading him soft kiss for soft kiss, learning the shape of his mouth. He's infinitely cautious, kissing her slowly, warily, with tension easing out of him as she keeps the pace mellow and gentle.

The hunger is there though, beneath the calm. But if she's honest, she's not sure either one of them is prepared for anything faster than this. She pulls back slowly. He follows for a moment, kissing her again shyly before straightening. He still has her hand trapped against his chest and frees her only when he's completely upright.

She meets his gaze, committing every detail of his face to memory. The taste of him is settled so deep that she's sure she'll never forget.

“Should probably head out,” he says and his voice is as hoarse as hers was earlier.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “They're waiting on you.”

He backs up, hesitates, then reaches over to cup her chin. Quick, almost impersonal, save for the way his thumb presses against the corner of her mouth.

“Stay safe,” he says quietly.

She smiles at him. “Nine lives, remember?”

He snorts, the noise both shaken and amused, before turning away. She watches until he rounds the corner and out of her sight.

Her heart keeps teetering.

 

* * *

 

“Carol?” Rick's voice doesn't hold as much as a hint of accusation. She stops in her tracks and squints at him. The sun's high in the sky and blinding.

She'd kill for a nap.

“Yeah?”

His gaze searches over her face before he glances away then back to her. “Did you kill Karen and David?”

Somewhere in her chest, she can feel her heart finally taking that leap of faith. The blade cuts cleanly. There's no blood, not even figuratively.

“Yes.”

His gaze goes dark. Not unfriendly but simply dark, as if a light has gone out. When he doesn't say anything else, she turns and gets back to work. If she gets her chores out the way, she might be able to get in some knife practice with the kids.

And then maybe she'd sneak off for a little bit and take that nap.

She was so tired these days.

 

 

 

 


End file.
